


The War Without Hate Raid

by Amedia



Series: Raids End [3]
Category: Rat Patrol
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-13
Updated: 2010-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amedia/pseuds/Amedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Rat Patrol run into Dietrich just after the death of Moffitt's brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The War Without Hate Raid

**Author's Note:**

> Originally printed in FLANKING MANEUVERS 2 (March 1998) under the pseudonym Anaktoria.

Jack couldn't quite seem to remember Henry's face. He'd never seen his little brother very often--a weekend here, a mid-semester break there, occasionally the luxury of a whole summer. When had he last seen Henry? After he'd been wounded in France, before he was reassigned to the LRDG, he'd had a chance to visit his family. Henry had been ten years old then. The corn-gold baby hair had darkened to wheat, and gangly skinned knees and elbows seemed to protrude at every angle, but when he ran up and threw his arms around his adored older brother, Jack could still see the little boy he remembered. But even as he pictured that last visit, he couldn't quite see Henry's face.

  
He looked up as a clatter announced Hitch's arrival. The American private pulled a chair out, turned it around, and straddled it, leaning over the back and peering at Moffitt with concern. "Hey, Sarge, " he said awkwardly. "How ya doin'? "

  
"I'm all right, " Moffitt answered wearily.

  
"Want some more tea? "

  
Moffitt looked down at the full, untouched, cold cup in front of him and then looked up with something close to a smile. "No, thanks, " he said.

  
Hitch looked around the deserted mess. The hospital staff and visitors came here at all times, so there was always tea, coffee, and some kind of snack, even when it wasn't a regular mealtime. Moffitt had been hanging around the hospital ever since they had brought Tully in two days ago with a painful thigh wound that he had received during a sabotage mission.

  
Hitch was aware that Moffitt had gotten a message from his mother back in England just before the mission, saying that his little brother had died in a bombing. At first he'd practically gone berserk, but Troy had somehow shaken some sense into him; not only had he settled down and completed the mission, he had rescued Tully. Since Tully couldn't go anywhere for at least a week, possibly two, the Rat Patrol had been given a very welcome leave in the little town around the Army hospital. Troy and Hitch had taken advantage of the local establishments, but Moffitt had taken to his quarters, coming out only to visit Tully and mope over the occasional cup of tea. He was clearly mourning his brother, and Hitch didn't know what to do or to say.

  
Troy came in. "I've been looking for you two, " he said. "The hospital needs someone to run a batch of requisitions over to the central headquarters right away. They don't have anyone they can spare right now, and I for one am sick of cooling my heels in this little piece of nowhere. So we're going. "

  
"We, Sarge? " Hitch asked, amused.

  
"Yeah, we. You got a problem with that? "

  
Hitch shook his head.

  
"You, too, Moffitt, " Troy added firmly. "You need a change of scene. The nurses can look after Tully without you watching over their shoulders all the time. "

  
Moffitt smiled gamely. "Tully may be the one to take care of _them_ once he's better. "

  
Hitch looked indignant. "Not all of them! "

  
Troy grinned, glad to see his team bantering again. "C'mon, " he said, "Let's shake it. "

  


* * *

  


It took a couple of hours to drive to the medical HQ. They had taken two jeeps; Hitch drove Troy and Moffitt drove himself. Moffitt felt better, back out in the desert. At first he simply enjoyed the familiarity of it, but after a while he began to look around with more interest.

  
After they had dropped off the requisitions, he took the others aside. "I say, Troy," he began, "I think I recognize this part of the desert."

  
"Don't tell me you were here with your father!" Hitch exclaimed.

  
Moffitt raised a finger to scold him. "Who was here, Private, you or me?" He turned back to Troy. "Actually I wasn't; we were about two hours to the northwest. But I studied the whole general area." He pulled out a map. "If we go back this way," he pointed to a penciled route, "we may pass by some fascinating ruins. And it won't actually take us any longer. Well, maybe about a quarter of an hour."

  
Troy considered for a moment. "Well. . . . "

  
"How about it, Sarge?" Hitch broke in eagerly. "Be nice to see something different for a change."

  
Troy nodded. "You're right, Hitch. Let's do it. Moffitt, you lead the way; we'll be right behind you."

  
Moffitt folded up the map, stuck it in his pocket, and climbed into his jeep. Hitch and Troy climbed into theirs, and they moved out together onto the alternate road.

  


* * *

  


After about forty-five minutes, Moffitt pulled the jeep to a stop and climbed out, looking around and frowning. Troy and Hitch pulled up behind him. "Found something?" called Troy.

  
There was a pile of stone rubble and a few walls that looked pretty old nearby, but Moffitt was scratching his head, staring at the ground. He moved some of the gravelly dirt around with the toe of his boot. After a moment, he nodded and waved to the others to come.

  
"The ruins aren't as obvious here as they were at the site I visited," he said. "Those structures over there are actually quite modern--no more than a thousand years old." Hitch and Troy exchanged grins at Moffitt's definition of "modern." Moffitt went on unaware, "But you can make out the outlines of some of the buildings here. My guess is that this was chiefly an underground construction, and there's quite a bit more to be seen somewhere below us."

  
"Quite right, Sergeant Moffitt," said a new voice. From behind one of the "modern" stone walls, Hauptmann Dietrich of the Afrika Korps stepped out, gun trained carefully on the party of Rats. "You might even see a small cache of supplies, and the radio with which I'm about to call my men to come and pick up my new prisoners."

  
Troy rounded on Moffitt. "You didn't mention that this detour of yours would take us behind enemy lines!"

  
"It doesn't!" Moffitt protested.

  
"He's right, Sergeant," interrupted Dietrich smoothly. "I'm afraid I have to admit to trespassing."

  
"We could overlook it this time," said Hitch, "and let you off with a warning."

  
Dietrich chuckled. "You may issue me all the warnings you like from the prisoner-of-war camp to which you will shortly be assigned. Now, gentlemen, if you would please throw down your weapons and precede me. . . .?"

  
The Rats did as they were told. Dietrich shepherded them back through the stone ruins to a narrow, dark entrance that slanted down into the ground. Moffitt looked at it carefully. "Has this been properly shored up?" he asked Dietrich. "These excavations can be quite dangerous, you know."

  
"It has been stable for thousands of years, Sergeant. I'm sure it will last a few hours longer."

  
"It's been stable because no one's been using it, Captain," Troy pointed out. "You may have disturbed something when you began converting it to a supply cache."

  
"Your tactic is really quite obvious, gentlemen," said Dietrich. "May I remind you that while the passageway may be uncertain, the fate of a man shot by a Luger at close range is quite certain indeed."  
"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Moffitt testily and ducked to go in. The others followed.

  
The passage slanted downward for a short distance, then opened out into a large underground chamber, lighted by portable lamps.. Several other passageways led off at various points around the room. Supplies were stacked neatly against the walls; a radio set stood in one corner.

  
Dietrich went over to the radio, waving the others to stand by a wall, far from any of the exits. Keeping his eyes--and his gun--trained on them, he contacted his base and sent a quick message.  
Dietrich gestured to a pile of crates. "You may as well make yourselves comfortable. It will take my men several hours to reach here."

  
Moffitt plunked himself down. "Not up to your usual standards of hospitality, is it?"

  
"Really, Troy," said Dietrich, "You've only ever had one polite member of the Rat Patrol and now even that one has become decidedly uncivil." Despite his light tone, he was looking at Moffitt with something that almost looked like concern.

  
"Aw, leave him alone," said Hitch. "His brother just died."

  
"Henry?" Dietrich asked, startled. Moffitt stared up at him, his eyes bright with unshed tears but still defiant. "Henry?" Dietrich asked again. Moffitt nodded. "But––" Dietrich did some quick math in his head. "He couldn't have been more than twelve or so."

  
"Eleven and a half," Moffitt said in a choked voice, looking away. "He was killed in an air raid on London."

  
Dietrich looked away. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly. He added in a normal tone, "I remember your father had a picture of the two of you on his desk. He took such delight in showing it to everyone who came into his office, even if someone had only stopped in to ask directions to the forensics lab. The two of you looked absolutely nothing alike, a dark, skinny teenager and a pudgy blond toddler, and yet you had such identical grins on your faces that no one ever doubted you were brothers." He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

  
Moffitt glanced back at him. "Thank you," he said.

  
Troy and Hitch exchanged glances. "I keep forgetting they knew each other back in college," whispered Hitch. "Weird, isn't it?"

  
Troy said nothing. Why had he fumbled for words and only succeeded in making Moffitt angrier? Why was Dietrich the one who could offer Moffitt genuine comfort?

  
His thoughts led him to another, less personal question, and he asked it. "What are you doing here all by yourself, anyway?"

  
Dietrich shrugged. "My men finished setting this up this morning, and I stayed behind to check on things while they went back for more equipment. And I must confess, I also stayed behind out of curiosity. I was hoping to get a chance to explore the complex of ruins."

  
"Hey," Troy said, getting to his feet. Dietrich backed up slightly and pointed the gun at him, still keeping the others in his line of sight. Troy spread his hands in a non-threatening manner. "As long as we're stuck here for a while, can we take a look around? I've never seen anything like this."

  
"How do I know you won't try to escape?"

  
"We'll stick together, and you can keep a gun on us," Troy said. "After all, we're not armed."

  
Dietrich thought about it for a while. "All right," he finally agreed. "But remember, I will not hesitate to shoot anyone who makes a single false step."

  
Troy shrugged. "I'm not looking for an escape," he said truthfully. At the moment, Dietrich clearly had the upper hand, and an escape attempt didn't seem like a good idea. Keeping his men alert, keeping them from getting bored, and learning the layout in more detail all seemed like good enough goals for now.

  
He nodded, acknowledging the captain's deadly sincerity. "What's down that way?" he asked, gesturing toward a passageway at random.

  
"I don't know," said Dietrich. "I haven't been down that one. Indeed, I was hoping to have the opportunity to do so." He took a large, powerful flashlight from the stack of supplies and gestured to the opening. "After you, gentlemen."

  
As they moved through the passage, Troy noticed Moffitt once again looking around nervously. "Something on your mind, Professor?" Troy asked.

  
"I don't like the looks of this, Troy," said Moffitt. "This passageway is not as well-preserved as that central area we were just in."

  
"Dietrich doesn't think there's a problem," Troy protested.

  
"He's not an expert, Troy." Moffitt reminded him.

  
"And you are."

  
"Well, now that you mention it, yes."

  
"Look, we're almost at the end," Troy said. The passageway opened out into a chamber, not as large as the central vault they had left behind. The others joined them, and Dietrich shone the flashlight around. The room was bare and plain, with a high ceiling, and smelled musty, as if it had been undisturbed for centuries. There were no other exits to the room.

  
"This appears to be a dead end," said Moffitt.

  
"All right, then, let's go back to where we were," said Dietrich "You first, gentlemen. Troy and Hitch stepped out into the corridor; Moffitt followed a little behind, taking one last look around the room. Dietrich trailed them, careful to keep his gun trained on them all.

  
They had only gone a few feet when there was an ominous shifting sound from above. "The ceiling!" Moffitt cried. "It's collapsing! Move!"

  
Troy and Hitch, who were nearest the central chamber, pelted down the passageway back the way they had come. Moffitt and Dietrich were closer to the other room; Moffitt grabbed a fistful of Dietrich's sleeve and yanked him back toward it, just as the ceiling came down right where they had been. They hit the floor amid a shower of small sharp rocks and pieces of masonry.

  
As the dust settled, Moffitt lifted his head to look around. Dietrich was sprawled on the floor nearby, thankfully well away from the rockfall. The cascade had sealed off the passageway behind them; they were a short distance from the room they had just left. Dietrich's flashlight had fallen next to him and was still casting light; his gun was nowhere to be seen.

  
Moffitt sat up, coughing but unhurt, and looked more closely at his companion. He reached out a tentative hand to shake him by the shoulder, then drew back. Instead, he asked formally, "Hauptmann Dietrich?"

  
Dietrich opened his eyes. Confused, he looked around and then up at Moffitt. "What happened, Sergeant?"

  
"The roof of the passageway fell in," Moffitt answered. Dietrich nodded, pushing himself up on one elbow and struggling to a sitting position. He kept one hand pressed against his side as he did so. "You all right?" Moffitt asked.

  
Dietrich gestured to some rocks on which he'd landed. "I think one of my ribs cracked one of those rocks," he said. "Or vice-versa." He waved off Moffitt's concern. "I don't believe it's serious."

  
Moffitt held up a finger for silence. After a moment, he whispered, "Did you hear that?"

  
Dietrich shook his head. Moffitt listened closely again, and this time Dietrich strained to hear as well. From the other side of the rockfall they heard a voice shouting. "Moffitt!" came Troy's voice faintly. "Dietrich!"

  
Dietrich took a deep breath to shout a reply and immediately regretted it when the sore rib protested. Moffitt shouted back, "We're in here! We're trapped!"

  
Troy's voice came a little louder. "I'm gonna send Hitch up to the surface and have him stomp around. You guys go back in that room and let me know when he's right over you. Then we can dig you out. I don't think the roof of that room is more than a yard below ground."

  
After a little while, they heard Hitch's footsteps overhead; there was a sifting of dirt and a number of pebbles fell. "He's found us!" called Moffitt.

  
"I'll let him know," came Troy's voice. There was silence for several minutes, then Troy's voice returned. "It'll take us a while to dig through this without bringing it all down on you. How's Dietrich?"

  
"He thinks he's cracked a rib," said Moffitt, glancing anxiously at the German captain. "He looks all right otherwise."

  
"Good." Troy's voice faded away. "Hitch, see what we have in the way of excavating tools in the jeep." His voice came back a few moments later. "We're gonna have to go back to Headquarters and get some equipment. You'll be all right?"

  
"We won't budge from this very spot," promised Moffitt.

  
"Thank you, Sergeant Troy," called Dietrich.

  
"All in a day's work, Captain," replied Troy. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

  


* * *

  


Dietrich eyed his current enemy and former lover. "I'm grateful for your assistance, Sergeant Moffitt. Were it not for you, I would undoubtedly have been buried when the passageway collapsed. I'm puzzled, however, by your motivation." His voice lifted slightly at the end of the last sentence.

  
Moffitt realized suddenly that Dietrich was afraid that their former relationship was hindering their present objectivity. "That had nothing to do with our past," Moffitt hastened to reassure him. "In fact, it had nothing to do with you and me at all."

  
Dietrich raised an eyebrow. "Then why?"

  
"I knew Troy would have been upset if I'd just stood by and let you die," Moffitt said matter-of-factly. "You know how he is."

  
Dietrich stared thoughtfully at Moffitt for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, I do. I shall never understand that man."

  
"You don't mean that!" said Moffitt, laughing. "Good lord, Dietrich, if you were short, American, and heterosexual you'd BE Troy!"

  
"I'm not sure whether I should be honored or insulted," Dietrich said, amused.

  
"Honored," Moffitt shot back, stung.

  
"Of course," said Dietrich quickly. Troy had clearly won Moffitt's respect, and Dietrich was well aware that he himself respected Troy as well. And he felt oddly reassured by the third adjective used to describe Troy. "So Troy's heterosexual, eh?"

  
"Straight as a plumb line," said Moffitt with a rueful grin. He shrugged. "If it's any comfort to you, he isn't my type, anyway."

  
It was some comfort to Dietrich, actually, but he wasn't going to admit it. Striving for a tone of merely polite inquiry, he said, "Really? What is your 'type,' Sergeant?"

  
Moffitt's tone was still light, but he dropped his eyes. "Oh, you know--tall, aristocratic, Continental. . . . " He looked down and noticed that his hand was near Dietrich's, close enough to touch. For a moment he wanted to move those few inches and make contact. He stared at Dietrich's hand, remembering it touching, stroking, caressing, exploring. . . . Abruptly he moved his own hand away, reminded of his father's warning, long ago.

* * *

  
 _  
Professor Moffitt had called Jack over one day after the morning excavation work was done. Settling him in the tent that served as an office, he poured a cup of lemonade for himself and his son, and chose his words carefully._

  
"Remember when we were going back and forth between those two tribes doing comparative studies all summer?" he asked. "One of them always wrapped their kaffiyehs up and to the left, and the other one always tied them on the right."

  
Jack nodded. "I remember. We had to keep reminding each other to switch whenever we left one to go to the other, lest we mortally offend our hosts."

  
"Exactly," said his father. "You know, Egypt and England are something like that as well. The way you tie your headgear in one place. . . . might get you in trouble in the other." He watched his son to see his reaction.

  
Jack knew exactly what his father really meant. What was acceptable here was unthinkable back at Cambridge. It wasn't so much the homosexuality; he'd seen enough "romantic friendships" to know the tradition was far from platonic. It was something else entirely. Here in the desert, blood ran hot and passions ran high. Intensity of feeling was not only expected but required, in love or loyalty, anger or enmity. In the languid atmosphere of Cambridge a studied insouciance was de rigeur. To care deeply about anyone or anything was simply bad form.

  
But he thought they'd been careful, even here. He looked at his father and said hesitantly, "Are we that obvious? I've tried to be discreet."

  
His father laughed and clapped him on the back. "You've been the soul of discretion, Jack. Only someone who knows you well would recognize that light in your eyes and the joy in your voice." He smiled. "You think I can't tell when my own son is in love?" Jack flushed and looked down. His father grew serious. "You know it can't last. I hate to see you hurt."

  
Jack nodded. "I know, father. I've known from the beginning that it wouldn't go beyond this summer. It is going to hurt," he lifted his head again and his eyes were sparkling, "but for right now, it's worth it."

  


* * *

  


 

And it had been worth it, every minute, thought Moffitt. It hurt so much when it was over, but it had been a clean break, a simple fact of circumstances. But now. . . . "I wish we hadn't met again," he said to Dietrich abruptly. "Not like this."

  
"Don't say that," said Dietrich with sudden vehemence. "Don't regret it." Moffitt stared at him, surprised. Dietrich went on. "The. . . path I walked with you in Egypt wasn't open to me in Germany," he said. "I have not been so close to anyone since. Seeing you again has reminded me of one of the most joyful experiences in my life. I cannot regret that."

  
Moffitt was touched, more than he cared to admit. "I can't say I've shared your restraint in the intervening years," he said slowly. "But it's never been the same. I've never recaptured the magic of that summer." He met Dietrich's eyes and for a moment was held by them. Maturity had thinned Hans' face, subtly changing the features, but the eyes remained the same and threatened to draw Moffitt back into the past. He tore his gaze away and went on. "I just don't want to see that memory spoiled now, covered over with new unpleasant memories."

  
" _Krieg ohne Hass_ ," said Dietrich, echoing his Field–Marshal's description of the idealistic North Africa campaign. "You do your duty and I'll do mine. There may be some discomfort, but I wouldn't call it unpleasantness." He reached out a hand toward Moffitt's shoulder, but stopped just short and withdrew it. He couldn't bear to touch Jack now. "War without hate" was a far cry from love.

  
There sat in silence for a while. Then Dietrich spoke again. "I'm truly sorry about your brother. I guess it hit you pretty hard."

  
"Right after I found out," said Moffitt dully, "I almost went mad with hatred. I wanted to kill every German I saw."

  
"Understandable," said Dietrich.

  
"Then I realized that the Germans didn't kill my brother." His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "I did."

  
"What do you mean?" Dietrich asked, curious.

  
"Before El Alamein, when Rommel's advance on Cairo seemed bound for inevitable success, I told my father that I thought my mother and brother would be safer in London. He agreed. If I hadn't said anything, if they had stayed in Cairo--"

  
"Your brother would have died a year ago, along with your mother" Dietrich cut in.

  
Moffitt stared at him, astonished.

  
Dietrich hesitated. This particular military secret had expired long ago, but he still felt uncomfortable revealing it. "I learned some time ago that several Allied intelligence agents who lived in Cairo, your father among them, had had their families targeted for murder. Not by our agents, but by Egyptians sympathetic to the German cause. Jack, you couldn't have saved your brother's life, but you did buy him time."

  
There was a long silence while Moffitt digested this new information. Finally he whispered, "Thank you."

  
Dietrich started to say, "You're welcome," but stopped, raising a finger for silence. A shaft of afternoon sunlight suddenly came into the room through a brand-new opening in the roof. Looking up, Moffitt and Dietrich could just make out the shapes of Troy and Hitch peering down from above.

  


* * *

  


"Thank you, Sergeant Troy," said Dietrich as he was finally hauled to the surface. He bent over for a moment, leaning his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath without breathing too deeply, aware of the sharp pain in his ribcage. Moffitt stood beside him, watching with concern. Hitchcock was coiling and stowing the ropes.

  
"You're welcome, Captain," said Troy. There was an awkward moment, and then Troy continued. "I'm afraid our situations have been reversed, however. You're our prisoner now."

  
Dietrich had been expecting this. Steeling himself against the pain caused by sudden movement, he reached out quickly with his right hand, grabbing Moffitt by the arm and pulling him closer, while with his left he whipped a concealed knife from his shirt and held it to Moffitt's throat. "Perhaps you and I can make an exchange, Sergeant," Dietrich proposed calmly. "My freedom for this man's life?"

  
Moffitt stood perfectly still, slightly off-balance from the sudden tug. He felt unreasonably proud, somehow, of the evenness of Dietrich's voice; no matter what they had once been to each other, the German captain was perfectly willing to kill him. The knife at his throat was rock steady, as was the hand gripping his arm; Moffitt realized, with a sudden shock that was almost a thrill, that this was the first time Dietrich had touched him during this entire encounter. Moffitt considered elbowing his captor in the ribs; given his recent injury, that would certainly incapacitate Dietrich, but Moffitt didn't think he could wrench his arm free quickly enough without getting his throat cut.

  
Troy didn't move; he was watching Dietrich carefully, gauging the captain's determination. "You'd kill Moffitt after what we just went through to rescue you?" Troy demanded.

  
"You may have noticed, Sergeant," Dietrich said dryly, "that we are on opposite sides."

  
Troy grinned and looked down briefly, thinking for a moment. Then he looked back up. "All right, Captain, you can put the knife away. You've got yourself a deal."

  
Dietrich released his hostage. "My men will be here in about an hour," he said, settling himself down on a large flat rock. "Till next time, Sergeant Troy?"

  
Troy saluted and Dietrich returned the salute. "Till next time, Captain," Troy said.

  
"Till next time," echoed Moffitt. He held Dietrich's gaze for a moment, then turned and followed the others.

  


* * *

  


"You look a lot better," Troy said the next morning.

  
"Thanks," Moffitt said, taking a sip of tea and setting it aside as still too hot. "I guess I . . . worked through some things. About my brother."

  
"Yeah," said Troy. He didn't look at Moffitt. "Nice you had Dietrich to talk it over with." He took a bite of his toast and chewed silently.

  
"Troy," said Moffitt, a little awkwardly. "Look, I know I was extremely rude when you tried to talk to me, right after I got the message. And I know it seemed like Dietrich knew just what to say." He shook his head. "He wasn't there, Troy, right after I got the message. You were. And you stuck by me. Sometimes it's not saying the right words that matters. It's being there, and not giving up."

  
"I'm glad I could help," Troy said sincerely.

  
Moffitt put a hand on Troy's arm, reaching out without hesitation. "So am I."  



End file.
